All characters are 18+
It is surprising what you miss after it's gone. I never thought that I could live without being able to watch television, but I am doing just fine. I guess that the real problem is freedom. I took it for granted for so long, and now that I am without it, it really irks me. Choosing what to eat was a totally mundane chore out in the world, but even this has been taken from me. Now I eat what they put on my tray, because if I don't, there will be no more food until the next meal.
I suppose that I should back up a minute, and explain a few things. My name is Nicolas Pace. I'm twenty-seven years old, and I'm married. My wife of three years and I have no children. This is not where the story begins, though. Three days ago I went on a drinking binge, and became so depressed that I tried to end my own life by overdosing on pills. I was feeling shitty about life in general, and about my life in particular after drinking my way through most of a fifth of Jack Daniels, when I downed whatever was left in my wife's Vicodin bottle. She had just had the script refilled a few days before, so I took a lot. I remember washing them down with the last inch of smooth Kentucky bourbon.
I lay down on the couch, and decided to rest until my suffering was all over and done with. I remember feeling blissful. I was smashed out of my gourd, and the pills started making me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I wasn't at all worried about any of that heaven and hell bullshit. I would leave that to all those religious types. My struggles were over, and I would set my body aside. If there was an afterlife, then great; if not, then that was awesome too. "Fuck it all," was my last thought, as I fell into the deep abyss.
I found no answers about the afterlife. I fell into a comatose state. My wife came in shortly after I lay down, and tried to wake me. She couldn't rouse me, and then she saw the empty pill bottle on the floor by the sofa; and she freaked the fuck out. She called 911 and within a few minutes the paramedics were at the door. Of course this information is all second hand from the ball and chain; she told me all of this in methodical detail so that I understood fully what an ordeal that I put her through. The paramedics immediately got me into the back of the ambulance, and started pumping my stomach. They intubated me, because my breathing was so shallow as to be almost non-existent. Meanwhile, I experienced the best sleep that I have had in years, free from all my problems, and knowing that I had finally laid all of my burdens down.
When I awoke, I was in the hospital, restrained to my bed. I had the worst hangover headache in history. After a couple of minutes of hollering, I got the attention of a nurse. She was a very nice, matronly lady that explained that I was a danger to myself, and that I couldn't be let out of the restraints except under the supervision of two orderlies. She said that it was after one o'clock in the morning, and that my wife had left for the night when visiting hours were over with. I thanked her, and she looked at me sideways.
"Mr. Pace, you haven't asked how you are doing. I would think that would be the big question on your mind. If the paramedics would have got to your house a couple of minutes later, you would have died."
"That was the general idea." The nurse frowned at my answer. I decided to try and be nice. There was no reason for me to be an asshole to her; she was just doing her job. "Just for laughs, how am I doing?"
"You were in a coma for the past two and a half days. Other than that, you seem to be ok. The doctors have run tests on your liver, and it seems that the extreme amount of alcohol combined with the high dosage of acetaminophen didn't permanently damage your liver. You were very lucky."
"Yeah, lucky me." She heard the sarcasm in my tone, and just decided to leave me be. She put the call button where my restrained hand could reach it, and offered to get me something mild for my headache.
The next morning my wife came and visited, but she said very little to me. She asked how I was feeling, and if I wanted her to get anything for me. After the doctors rounds they decided to release me, but not to go home. I was being committed for treatment, and observation. The doctor and my wife both said that this is exactly what I needed to "get better." I took the long ambulance ride to the Lone Pine Rehabilitation and Treatment Center, or as I call it: the Nuthouse.
The people were very nice, and very thorough. I was asked approximately three thousand questions; many of them two or three times. I stripped off my clothes, while a male staff member watched, then a male nurse gave me a rectal cavity check to make sure that I wasn't smuggling any drugs in my asshole. Now devoid of any shred of dignity, I was given a pair of bright red scrubs to wear.
I sat in the dayroom looking at my wife. She is a pretty enough lady, at least on the outside. She has shoulder length blonde hair, big beautiful blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfect mouth that was made for kissing. If her personality matched her looks, she would be great. I don't know how to say it exactly. She says the right things, and even does most of the stuff that a wife should do. The main problem is that her heart really isn't in it. I don't think, in her heart of hearts, that she loves me. I think she just loves the idea of me. She likes having a man around, she likes being Mrs. Pace, and she'll even dutifully have sex with me every couple of weeks, though only in missionary position. I too have played the game, even though I know that it is all a sham. I really don't even want to have sex with her anymore; I just do it to make her feel uncomfortable. Maybe I really am a bit of a bastard.
The dayroom is the place where we are allowed to visit with our families, and to have group activities, or we can just hang out there. The orderlies are always there, watching and waiting. She is the only visitor there, since visitors are usually only allowed on Tuesdays and Sundays. They let her visit today since it was my first day. I guess they thought that seeing a familiar face would help me adjust.
The dayroom had a vaulted ceiling, and was painted a cheery sky blue, with a mural of clouds parting to give a clear view of a big yellow sun. How fucking poetic. How fucking ironic. Most everyone here looked half out of it, or just plain miserable. There was a small group of people talking quietly in the corner that looked almost normal, maybe I would see if I could become friendly with them later. Being friendly probably will go a long way in getting me the fuck out of this place. I just have to tell these people what they want to hear, and play their game; and they'll let me free. Then I can go... well... I'm not really sure what will happen when I leave here; but there is one thing for sure, I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary.
My wife continued to look embarrassed, and seemed happy when I finally suggested that she should go. She promised to bring me a new pair of slippers, and a few books, and give them to the front desk tomorrow. She kissed me lightly with her bee stung lips, and then I was watching her walk away. Her absence made me feel relieved.
